So, I woke up this morning—well, it felt like morning, but who really knows when it started? The sun was doing that thing where it pretends to rise but isn’t really committed. Anyway, there I was, on the Mysterious Isle, and I swear I heard a marching band of crickets serenading the dawn in 1920s jazz tunes. Casual. Typical.
Strolling down the sandy walkways (detours by cheeky seagulls included), I stumbled upon an old, battered typewriter sitting prominently on a cobblestone path. No one around to claim it, just the gentle sea breeze carrying away the last whispers of typewritten words. I sat down and poured my heart out onto it. Surprisingly, it only printed out '404: Meaning Not Found'. Classic isle humor, I suppose.
A local cat (or was it a fox in disguise?) finally broke the existential silence, giving me a look that said either “Welcome, Traveler” or “Swipe Left”. Hard to say with those ambiguous expressions.
Hear the Whispers Curled Pages Mystery Trail